


Minnesota

by cognomen



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Arthur who makes the rules about when and how they use the PASIV - he says he's learned from the Cobb's mistakes, and that he's quite happy retaining his ability to dream naturally - and it's usually Arthur who winds up deciding to break them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minnesota

It's Arthur who makes the rules about when and how they use the PASIV - he says he's learned from the Cobb's mistakes, and that he's quite happy retaining his ability to dream naturally - and it's usually Arthur who winds up deciding to break them. She's been able to convince him to let them dream together twice - once when their first vacation together was totally rained out, they'd lived the perfec one together instead. The second time, she'd built them a chance to walk in space, after learning she loved the feel of weightlessness in one of those wind tunnel rides at the state fair.

This time, though, it's his idea.

They're in Minnesota for the holidays - turned out Arthur has a huge family, one that he obviously loves and that totally exasperates him at the same time. Even Ariadne finds them a little overwhelming at times, what with the holidays being a rush of nieces and nephews and cousins. Minnesota is lovely in the summer, the huge farm alive with sights and smells and growing things and animals and chores to be done by every able hand. She'd have never placed Arthur as a farm boy, but she supposes that the barely contained chaos that seemed to keep the place going was the perfect breeding ground for sensible, detail-oriented Arthur. He was just that one cog that kept the whole machine running, and when he came back home he fit back into that space with such ease. Ariadne loved to see him roll up his sleeves and tackle things like dishes - it was so mundane, so very human. It made him seem more whole and real, this context that wasn't as fantastic as dreams and big-city heists.

The problem with Minnesota in the holidays was - 

"I hate the cold," Arthur complains, so very softly, his breath hissing out into the air in puffs of steam that seem to be made sluggish by the cold that creates them, and he's shoving his hands into the opposite armpits of his coat, trying to preserve feeling in his fingertips. He won't sacrifice dexterity for thicker gloves, which is silly in Minnesota, but it wasn't like he spent most days outside with a gaggle of six year olds engaging in such things as snowball fights. 

Ariadne scoots sidelong out of his field of vision - he's watching the kids organize themselves into teams, taking all of his advice about creating big barriers for cover to heart. 

"You grew up here, " Ariadne says, stooping down to get a big handful of snow while he's distracted. "Aren't you used to it by now?"

"There's only so much cold a person can get used to," he answers, but it's not really with any true ill-humor. "I mean, there's cold, and then there's the temperature at which parts start dropping off."

Arthur rarely says what he actually means. It's a habit he reserves for when he's speaking to Dom, and very occasionally when he has something important to say to Ariadne. The rest of the time he speaks around his point -irritations voicing themselves in general ways, like how he deals with the fact that he envies Eames with constant criticism (Eames understands by now). 

Ariadne is compacting the snow in her hands, pressing it together. Minnesota has thick, wet snow. New York got this kind occasionally, but she remembers more often that the snow she'd had as a child was powdery and uncooperative. It didn't compact like this - sticking into a slowly compressing circle in her mittens in the most pleasing manner. 

"So," she says, turning the snowball in her hands while he's still not looking, pressing, turning, pressing, turning, making it perfectly round and evenly shaped, "Let's go inside. We can go up to the second floor and build a fire in the guest den."

"They're playing poker in the guest den," Arthur says, and he begins to glance around at her like - you saw them in there earlier, remember? Ariadne throws her snowball before the opportunity flies away, and it's extremely satisfying to see Arthur's split-second of surprise before the snow impacts his throat - lower than she wanted - and satisfyingly flies apart before bits of loosed snow crawl their way under his scarf, producing a noticeable shiver.

"Ariadne!" He scolds, peeling his scarf away from his neck, and then flapping it to dislodge the snow before it melts in and makes the whole thing damp. She can't help her grin, but her triumph quickly turns to fluttering butterflies of playing panic as his mouth sets into a firm line - a 'you want to play that way, do you?' line, and he stoops down to gather up his own handfuls of snow. 

She can't stop the squeak that escapes her as she bolts for the house, flying through the porch door and into the relative safety of the kitchen - where three generations of family peer curiously and amusedly at her as she ducks down behind the breakfast bar, panting and leaving muddied snow tracks on the kitchen floor.

"Oh, tch, take off your boots, there!" Arthur's mother scolds from the stove, and pushes a big wad of papertowels into Ariadne's hands while she laughs sheepishly.

"I'm sorry - he's got a snowball," she explains, slipping her boots off and wiping the wet up off the floor. 

"You hit me with one first," Arthur answers, standing just outside the screen door into the kitchen - left cracked open to let some of the heat from all the cooking food out and keep the kitchen from sweltering even with the outside temperature so low. "It's only fair."

"Oh, Arthur," his older sister scolds, "Don't you remember that girls get a free shot in any snowball fight?" 

He tosses his readied snowball in the air, threateningly, by way of response. "If I throw it in the house, and clean it up, can I throw it in the house?" he asks, keeping his tone purposefully innocent.

"No!" The women chorus, and Ariadne sticks out her tongue before scooting deeper into the house to avoid reprisal, even at the risk of familial wrath. 

Scooting upstairs, she peeks into the guest den to say 'hi' to the uncles and nephews - they're playing poker for pretzels in there, and the sweet, homey smell of pipe tobacco wafts out into the hallway. They look very serious, but not like they aren't having fun, and she can see Arthur in almost every face. It's endearing somehow, to know that he obviously has a family, and even though they're a bit like night and day, there's still some of them in him (and him, she supposes, in them).

She creeps into the bedroom they share and starts peeling off her outer layers. Mittens, and the heavy down coat she'd thought she'd never need, and a hat that someone had dug out of a closet that looked like it belonged in the movie Fargo - but she guesses that makes sense around here. It smells a little bit like old farm closet, but she kind of likes that. She puts them on top of the dresser to dry out, hanging up the coat over the radiator so it will be warm when she needs to wear it next. She's considering taking off her sweater when two frigid hands slide up under the back of it and press against her back - Arthur's revenge.

Yelping, she forces herself to endure the sudden starpoints of cold against her warming skin. 

"Let's go someplace without snow for Christmas," Arthur says, his nose against the back of her neck - he has to practically bend himself in half to do it, but he will when she's warmer than he is. Revenge. "I don't even care where. If we don't speak the language, even better."

"Christmas is in... like, three days," She says, practically - but the idea is tempting. "And it's supposed to snow again tonight. You want to try to get to the airport in that?"

He huffs out a frustrated breath, and then pulls his hands off her back - she can still feel the imprints of cold where they'd been. 

"No, I mean, right now," he says, and pushes the door to their room closed, before he crouches down to pull the PASIV out from underneath the bed. "You ever been to Guadalajara in December? It's fantastic. Australia - it's summer time right now, in Australia."

"Okay," she laughs, pushing her hair back and rubbing her sweater over the cold spots on her back. "We'll have a getaway. With no snow."

"With no snow and tropical drinks," he corrects, and snaps open the locks on the case. "Just this once."

"Well, next year we can do it for real - but you know, I'll miss your family," she says, and smiles genuinely. She loved spending time with Arthur, of course, but she loved his family too. Something about it made him seem more human, more approachable. 

"I'd miss them too," he admits. "I guess we're just stuck with the snow and the temperature every year at Christmas. It just wouldn't be right without it."

They dream of the beach, and heat, and sun-soaked hours - but at the end, Ariadne can't resist changing the dream to include the sort of snow she remembers from her childhood winters in New York, watching the flakes drift purposelessly through the air in spirals and whirls, before they settle for seconds of contrast against Arthur's dark hair, melting away to be replaced again by delicately settling flakes that cling silently to his eyelashes. For all he may hate snow, she thinks there are some good things about it, as she leans in to kiss him in their little corner of paradox - where the snow hits the baking sand and then fades, like the whole dream.


End file.
